Читать книгу The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author - Alex Lake, Alex Lake - Страница 17

Alfie turned into their street – they lived in a double-fronted Victorian villa halfway down the street – and walked slowly towards the house. It was a few minutes past seven p.m.; he’d been to a showing in Battersea. He normally tried to avoid showings as much as he could. After he and Claire got married he had felt he needed some kind of job, but he had no idea what to do, so, when Mick suggested becoming an estate agent he had agreed. Mick had helped him to find a post at a different agency – he claimed he didn’t want to mix family and business, but Alfie was convinced it was because Mick thought he was incompetent and didn’t want him near his business. As it was, it had turned out to be an inspired choice of career.

He was, if he did say so himself, fucking good at it. People seemed to want someone with a big smile to convince them that whatever property they were looking at was the perfect place for them, and Alfie was happy to oblige. Even when he knew the neighbours were noisy and annoying and there was a problem with cockroach infestations in the summer he looked them in the eye and said they’d be so happy there. Not giving a shit about them made it easier, of course.

The other benefit – and this was huge – was that he could come and go as he pleased during the day and, even better, the agency had the keys to all kinds of empty properties all over the city which he could use when he met people online.

Claire had texted – Doc says everything OK! – so he had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

‘Hey!’ he called out as he opened the door. ‘Are you home?’

‘In the kitchen,’ Claire replied.

He walked in, making sure there was a wide smile on his face. ‘I got your text. It’s wonderful news. I’m so glad the doctor didn’t find anything.’

‘I know,’ Claire said. ‘In one way it’s a relief, but in another it’s frustrating – and worrying – because if there was a reason then at least the doctors could fix it, and if they couldn’t we’d know for sure and could make other plans. As it is, all I – we – can do is wait.’

‘It’ll happen,’ Alfie said. ‘Eventually. Lots of people have been in this exact situation.’

Claire seemed about to say something but she hesitated. She looked a little sheepish.

‘Everything OK?’ Alfie said.

‘He did ask about one other thing.’

‘Which was?’

‘Your test. The one you took at home.’

‘What about it?’

‘He wondered whether you should take another one.’

Alfie was, for a moment, lost for words. He had not been expecting to hear that. He’d taken his test – or so he’d told Claire – and he’d assumed the whole sperm-count question was settled. The last thing he needed was anyone else interfering. ‘Doesn’t he think they’re accurate?’

‘He didn’t say so. Not exactly, anyway. All he said was, there’s some margin for error. Maybe you didn’t get it right.’

Alfie laughed. ‘It’s not tremendously hard to do. You just – you know, point and shoot – on the test and a line pops up in a window.’

‘Still. He said there are other, more reliable tests he could do.’

‘And get paid for.’

‘I don’t think he was trying to drum up business, Alfie. I think he was making a suggestion. Being helpful.’

Alfie held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I was only being cynical.’

‘So will you do it? Go and see him?’

Alfie weighed it up. He could say yes, and then simply put it off. Find reasons to cancel appointments. Eventually she might forget.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’ll come to much, but why not? If it helps, I’ll do it.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’ Claire smiled. ‘So I made the appointment. It’s for seven a.m., this Thursday.’

Seven a.m. this Thursday? The stupid fucking bitch. What had she done now? This was typical of her. She had to fucking interfere. He’d told her his test was OK, but did she believe him? No – she went jabbering on to her private doctor that Daddy paid for because the NHS wasn’t good enough for her and then she went and actually made an appointment for him, an actual goddamn appointment that he would have to attend. There was no way he had something going on at seven a.m., and she knew it.

But he couldn’t attend. Any half-decent doctor would see immediately that he didn’t have a low sperm count; he had no sperm at all. And then they’d see the vasectomy scar – it was small but they’d know exactly what it was – and he’d be screwed.

Totally screwed.

He’d wake up on Thursday and say he was ill. But then she’d reschedule.

He was trapped. Shit. Shit. Shit. He needed a way out. And fast.

‘Are you all right, Alfie?’

He smiled at her and took out his phone – his iPhone, not his Henry Bryant phone, Henry Bryant who would have told her to go to hell, he’d already done the test and she’d better believe what he damn well said – and opened the calendar.

‘What day was it?’ he said, his voice calm and even. He grabbed her glass of wine and took a sip. He fought the urge to chug the whole thing.

‘Thursday at seven a.m. Dr Singh said he’d open early for you.’

He nodded. He’d have to go. He’d simply have to find another way to deal with it. This was a real problem.

Unless. Unless he could find a way to nip it in the bud. He had the beginnings of an idea. Perhaps there was something he could do after all. He felt himself relax.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said.